Waiting for spring

tiny  summer orchids

brighten

my memory

A yellow lady slipper

The light that guides one home

A jar etched with your name
a single petal from a faded rose
a golden leaf
two pebbles from a distant island shore
a ring too small
a button covered with blue silk
a single pearl from a necklace
broken long ago

Moon shadow
purple pines
darken the snow

On her birthday
in pink satin
with her new helmet
and her new scooter
my lady rides

Tree
deep rooted in the earth
laced into  sky
map of generations
outliving all
cliche of truth
in a hundred languages.

Dark blue skies in the evening light

Let wayward fingers
prize words out of the ether
minus thought
and drift on the edge
across the final bar
that fences the horizon
only the white flag
signals trust
I hoist the blank page
and hope
there are words, and wordlings
far beyond my minding

The ravages of time–a cliche
but she knew that was the only way
she saw the mirror

All other words
she wrote on candy wrappers
tossed into the sea

As the crone sat dreaming beside the summer sea

Her dreams were all of long ago

the tiny country store, grain elevators, the old gas pump, the post box

where Jenny Wren lived in summer.

The Postmaster, whose sign said “Bird in Residence, do not disturb.”

Inside the warm stove where local farmers came to gather mail, tell stories

and fill the air with pipe smoke

while the child hidden behind the counter stored their tales. Fran

My drawing for Cronelogic and friends at Rainbow Beach

The words slip into a darkling cave

Bats hang in bunches from a stone shelf
I can go no further lest I lose the sun

I dare not use the lamp he gave me
Creatures that live in darkness fear the light
but I was born in the morning and this place refuses me

Crone recalls the schoolhouse dance

He plays an old record
the mellow tones of the saxaphone
a piano, a base, a drum or two
and the big band songs that they made their own
as they danced until dawn
and kissed at the gate
as her landlady checked
when she came in late

Cat Morning

Morning
the little cat goes in and out
unable to decide whether wind and rain
are dangerous

Above the walk
the giant fronds of the palm
have no shadows
but cry out

The leaves of the grape vine
squish underfoot
and the dove’s voice
cannot be heard

Misty, the old cat

refuses to leave her cosy spot
but the kitten looks at me
expecting me to turn off the weather

Drift westward on receding tide

My sail furled no longer strives to reach the shore
No boundaries edge the distant sea

No soft spoken passenger asks a plan or place
Alone with my boat into the setting sun
my wake collects my shadow into night